


Say 'Dragonstone' to Surrender

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Series: The Hell-Raising Chronicles of the Trenchcoat Brigade [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Combeferre is a stone-cold badass, Gen, M/M, and things escalate rather a lot, nerf guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Bossuet’s fault, really.</p><p>Well, not Bossuet’s fault, Bossuet’s shitty luck’s fault, because all he was trying to do was get a birthday present for his niece. But the computer read “10” even though he swore that he typed “1” onto the order form. And then when they came, the boxes had come open, and the forms said “1” again, so officially, only 1 had been delivered, so he couldn’t return the other 9.</p><p>And then, somehow they all ended up at the Musain, 9 brightly-coloured plastic Nerf guns, six shots each, lined up on a table.</p><p>It’s Grantaire’s fault after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say 'Dragonstone' to Surrender

 

It’s Bossuet’s fault, really.

Well, not Bossuet’s fault, Bossuet’s shitty luck’s fault, because all he was trying to do was get a birthday present for his niece. But the computer read “10” even though he _swore_ that he typed “1” onto the order form. And then when they came, the boxes had come open, and the forms said “1” again, so officially, only 1 had been delivered, so he couldn’t return the other 9.

And then, somehow they all ended up at the Musain, 9 brightly-coloured plastic Nerf guns, six shots each, lined up on a table.

It’s Grantaire’s fault after that.

The Holy Trinity of the Revolution are leaning over Combeferre’s laptop, glowing like the Ark of the Covenant, and snatches of conversation drift past, Combeferre saying “We’ve got two tables reserved,12:30 to 2:30, so we should catch most of the traffic across the Quad…”

And Enjolras’s “So we need to determine who goes where…”

And Courfeyrac’s “So, we’re decorating them, right? I have the _best_ posters…”

And Grantaire, very quietly, curls one hand, nails painted black, because this week he’s Siege Loki (the polish is chipping at the edges, because he’s Grantaire) around a yellow plastic trigger…

…and shoots Courfeyrac in the back. Courfeyrac yelps loudly, whirling around only to be shot twice, once in the chest, and once in the face, by Feuilly and Bahorel, both of them already diving for cover behind a chair as Jehan, hair flying, snatches up a gun to avenge him.

Jehan is terrifyingly fast, but Bossuet is terrifyingly unlucky, and Grantaire is too used to projectiles coming towards him at speed (Feuilly has alarmingly good aim), so Bossuet goes down, four shots to the stomach as Grantaire yanks him up out of his chair and uses him as a human shield.

“Sorry!” Jehan calls over his shoulder as Bossuet sinks back down, shaking his head helplessly. But then Jehan’s got his gun up again, and it’s only Bahorel’s “Get down!” and a tattooed fist knotted in the back of Grantaire’s t-shirt that saves him.

Grantaire lets out a startled “Fuck!” as Bahorel pulls him aside, and Feuilly shoots Jehan in the back.

Courfeyrac, although nominally dead already, grabs a gun of his own. He’s about to fire, aiming at Feuilly’s freckled hip, exposed where his shirt has started to ride up, but Combeferre’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Courfeyrac.”

Combeferre holds out his hand. The light flashes across his glasses, momentarily hiding his eyes. Courfeyrac nods solemnly, and hands over the pistol without a word.

Comebeferre, with a pistol in either hand, is serene and terrible, walking calmly and untouched to the center of the room, while in the meantime…

…Joly blocks a shot from Bahorel with the walking stick he’s started using, on account of his allegedly weak ankles and delicate knees, and then blocks another…

But then Bahorel grabs hold of the stick, pulls him forward and _pow-pow, one, two_ , double-taps him the chest. So Joly slinks off to care for the wounded.

Combeferre empties one pistol into Grantaire, six shots, two the chest, three to the stomach and one right between his eyes.

And of course, Grantaire being Grantaire, he staggers dramatically, falling like a slow-motion film shot to his knees, head bowed. But he does manage to take out Combeferre with his dying breath before curling around the leg of a table, with a tragic, black-tipped hand flung out to one side.

Then Enjolras is on his feet, against Feuilly and Bahorel, andFeuilly takes a hit to the thigh, and almost takes another to the jaw, but he flings himself backwards, arcing back over a table, then rolling onto his side and _one_ to Enjolras’s hip _two_ to his chest _three_ to his throat. So Enjolras is down and it’s Feuilly and Bahorel and Grantaire on the floor drawls “Your options are: back-to-back, ten paces and draw, or you kiss passionately amidst the carnage and drive away in a Fiat.”

“So, funny thing about dead people,” Bahorel quips, looking down, “is that they shut the fuck up.”

Grantaire just laughs.

Feuilly has one shot left. So does Bahorel.

Grantaire nearly chokes on a foam dart, and there’s a bright red mark just under his left ear that doesn’t fade for a week.

That should, and in a perfect world, it would be the end of it.

But that’s why they meet at the Musain week after week, because the world is _far_ from perfect. So Feuilly comes home one day tofind a Nerf gun dangling from the doorknob on the end of an old shoelace, under a note that says “Say ‘Dragonstone’ to surrender”. At least he thinks that’s what it says; Bahorel’s handwriting is kind of shit (partly it’s that he learned to write in a whole different alphabet, and still leaves notes lying around covered in incomprehensible Arabic script, and partly because, well, he just has shit handwriting). It takes him a minute to get the gun loose, but he does, and stands there for a minute, trying to decide whether or not Grantaire was in on this, and if he was, how best to get rid of his body.

Which is when Bahorel opens the door, and shoots him in the face.

Feuilly is better at pictures than he is at words, but he reads, and far as words go, he’s not bad. So it’s not like it’s _hard,_ really to think of a word for what happens next.

The word is “escalation”.

The same night, Feuilly presses the plastic muzzle against the back of Bahorel’s neck at three in the morning, and squeezes. There’s a hollow _ka-chunk_. Bahorel wakes up swearing as Feuilly hisses “The night is dark and full of terrors, motherfucker”

Two days after that, Feuilly drops down onto a stool in his life-drawing class, resigning himself to another two hours of models who move too much and his professor’s raging boner for Classical Greece (they’ve been drawingGods and Heroes for weeks, except that Ganymede kept hunching his shoulders self-consciously, Atlanta was trying _much_ too hard and Apollo, in addition to not being Enjolras, eliciting a unending tirade of disappointment from Grantaire behind him, just looked like he wanted to go home). Except that when he looks up, there’s Bahorel, stark fucking naked, with all six and a half feet of him laid bare other than the few inches covered by his tattoos and a terrycloth lion-skin. He’s Hercules.

He’s also a suspiciously perfect model, not moving, barely even breathing, even if there’s the faintest shadow tugging at the corner of his mouth that Feuilly knows means that he’s unbearably smug right now. Feuilly sketches, and glares, and shades and tries to figure out what he’s up to. He finds out afterward, as Bahorel is pulling his jeans back on, when he reaches under his balled-up shirt, and Feuilly ends up with three darts caught in his collar.

“Bang, bang, bitch” Bahorel grins.

“There are not numbers for how much you are going to pay for this. I will eat you alive.”

“Promise?”

There’s only a handful of people left in the room, including a willowy girl with an undercut dyed bright magenta, and she looks abruptly very interested in the conversation.

“You die for this.” Feuilly promises as he leaves.

And the day after _that_ is one of Bahorel’s debate days, which is a guarantee he’ll be on campus, since debates, if you think about it, are really just fights without punching, and it will be a cold fucking day in Hell when Bahorel walks away from a fight. It also means that Bahorel will be wearing the one suit he owns, which (should) make him (slightly) less mobile. So Feuilly waits, and when Bahorel walks out of “court”, with his charcoal suit and his pony-tail, Feuilly raises his gun to shoot…

…and Bahorel slides one hand under his lapel and pulls out his own, and Feuilly thinks _You kept it in your goddamn jacket, for fuck’s sake, what **are** you?_

There’s long moment where neither one of them moves, and there’s no sound at all. Smoke drifts up past Feuilly’s face, curling into the still-cold spring breeze.

Which is when Grantaire rides up on his three-gear, brakes-shot-to-hell, razor-thin-tires-that-shake-when-you-ride bicycle, and shoots them both.

And there’s not a man, woman, or non-binarily gendered individual alive who could catch Grantaire on his fucking bike when he gets going, standing up to pedal harder with his hair and hoodie blown out behind him, cackling gleefully.

So that one ends in a draw.

And by then, it’s Friday, which means the Feuilly is meeting Combeferre in the Library for Thai and making fun of bad literature, and trading illicit copies of the good stuff. Combeferre is reading when he comes in, one hand in his lap and other deftly manipulating a pair of chopsticks. An immense feeling of relief washes over him then, since Bahorel and libraries are as two of the same magnetic pole; they naturally repel one another. So he’s safe.

Which is when Combeferre, without once looking up from his book, lifts his hand from his lap andfires, laughing quietly around his noodles. He sets the bright orange pistol aside with a soft smile. “Sorry” heoffers “I couldn’t resist.”

Feuilly wants to hate him, a little. But Combeferre has the yellow curry he likes, and a copy of Good Omens, the white-cover edition he doesn’t own yet, and offers to lend his own “God’s Playground” (the second volume, which Feuilly also doesn’t own yet) so Feuilly forgives him. But only just.

There is, however, still the matter of making Bahorel pay for what he did. They’ve both taken to keeping the guns on hand all the time though, shoved into rucksacks and the waistbands of jeans, or hidden under couch cushions, just in case. So it takes time. But that’s fine, that’s okay. Feuilly’s used to deprivation. He can wait.

So he waits, and sketches, and smokes, and picks up extra shifts at both jobs (ah, the glamorous life of a stagehand and part-time hipster-art-supply-store sales clerk) and one day, he comes home to sound of an unfamiliar rhythm being plucked out on bass guitar, and knows that now is the time. Because the thing is, Bahorel plays bass, and sometimes he writes songs. But it’s not so much writing songs as it is dropping whatever he’s doing to pluck out the bass line in his head and half-scribbling down a few chords. And the thing is, most of the time, these ideas come to him mid-shower, and Bahorel just runs out, grabs a towel and plays like that, like it’s more important to get the line down than it is to give a fuck about clothes.

Feuilly, when he wants to be, is a ghost, unheard, unseen and completely unnoticeable. And right now, one hand wrapped around a yellow-and-orange plastic six-shooter, he really, really wants to be. Feuilly eases the bedroom door open, dry-mouthed.

Bahorel’s hair is even darker when wet, curling like an ink-spill down his neck and shoulders. He’s holding the guitar a little away from himself, to keep it dry, so he must have just come out. A fat droplet runs all the way down his spine, vanishing under the damp towel wrapped low around his hips. Feuilly swallows. Then he eases forward, covering his footsteps under the sound of Bahorel’s playing, until he’s close enough to put the gun right up against the back of Bahorel’s head and purr “Say ‘Dragonstone’ to surrender”

Bahorel stiffens. “Fuck no.” His hands tighten around the neck of his guitar. Feuilly snorts.

“Please. You’re not gonna hit me with that.”

“No, I’m just gonna fucking strangle you with the cord.” Bahorel huffs, trying to turn and face him. Feuilly jabs the gun into his skull in warning.

“Yeah, no. Say ‘Dragonstone’.”

Bahorel lays the guitar down slowly. “I wish to discuss the terms of my surrender.”

“Do you now?” Feuilly drawls flatly. This time, when Bahorel moves to tilt his head up and sideways, Feuilly lets him.There’s a trickle of water slipping down the line of his throat, and pooling momentarily between his collarbones before sliding down his chest.

“Mmmhmm” Bahorel hums. And then Feuilly can feel calluses skating over his sides as Bahorel reaches back over his head and slips his hands under Feuilly’s shirt. Feuilly closes his eyes and breathes out.

“Say ‘Dragonstone’.” Bahorel’s hands clamp down on his ribs and he rolls his eyes.

“Jesus Fuck, _fine_. Fucking Dragonstone”

The gun clatters against the wall. Feuilly licks his lips. “Good. Now, the terms of surrender are as follows:” and he runs one freckled hand down Bahorel’s back “ditch the towel” and he shoves Bahorel back onto the mattress “and lay down.”

It takes way too fucking long for the towel to come undone, and when it does, Bahorel stretches his arms up over his head, arcing up like the fucking exhibitionist he is. So Feuilly strips off his shirt and throws it at Bahorel’s face. “And you can stop looking so fucking smug”. And while Bahorel is clawing the cotton off his face, Feuilly swings one leg over, and settles himself at the very bottom of Bahorel’s hips, where he knows the denim-friction from his jeans is going to be absolutely tortuous, and nowhere _near_ enough. And sure enough, Bahorel’s hands curl into his belt-loops, and try to tug him further down. Feuilly digs his knees into the mattress and doesn’t budge.

“Yeah, you surrendered. So knock it off” he breathes against the hollow of Bahorel’s throat, grazing teeth over his pulse. There’s a rumble he can feel through Bahorel’s chest, a growl of complaint and Feuilly plants a hand on either side of his head, trails his mouth across and down and bites down, right where neck meets shoulder. Bahorel’s breath catches and he goes loose and pliant under Feuilly, dropping his head back. Then Feuilly settles back on his heels, considering.

Because it’s not often that Bahorel _actually_ does what anybody tells him to do. And Feuilly’s rocking, shifting his hips back and forth without really thinking about it while he thinks, and he’s idly running his hands up and down, up and down Bahorel’s chest, tracing the lines of tattoos already there and the imagined ones that aren’t.

Bahorel whines.

“Would you just fucking _do_ something?” he hisses, voice rough and needy. He’s pushing at Feuilly’s hips again, pupils blown. Feuilly leans over him, ignoring the way his jeans are too fucking tight and he’s pressed up against his own zipper and it’s just this side of painful, and says “Shut. The Fuck. Up.” before bringing their mouths crashing together.

As far as plans go, he’s had better, because as much as he’s enjoying this, dragging out choked-off curses and keening from the other man, Bahorel can do _illegal_ things with his tongue,and he’s got one heavy hand sliding over the curve of Feuilly’s ass, and the other working at the button of his jeans, and Feuilly is starting to lose the upper hand. So he pushes himself back up, both hands planted on Bahorel’s chest and glares down, licking his swollen lips.

“Christ, I am going to fucking murder you!” Bahorel growls, reaching to pull him back down. But Feuilly is already gone, rolling off the bed and pacing backward out of reach, with both hands poised to pull his jeans off all the way.

“I can always just leave, you know. Asshole.”

“Don’t even.” Bahorel snarls “Motherfucker, you wouldn’t dare.”

No, he wouldn’t. Not now, but Bahorel doesn’t have to know that, so Feuilly just drums his freckled fingers along his own hipbones and drawls “Oh yeah? Watch me.”

Bahorel flashes him a lewd grin and rolls over onto his stomach, chin propped up on his hands. “I’m watching. You gonna do anything good?”

It’s half a staring contest, half a strip-tease, Feuilly sliding his jeans off slowly, slowly, then his boxers, stepping out of them with an almost jarring grace, watching Bahorel watch him the whole time. And his eyes are watering, a little, but he refuses to be the one to blink first, so Feuilly keeps his eyes on Bahorel’s (and he imagines them as an actual weight, as hot and solid as the rest of Bahorel, pressing down) even as his hand is groping in the drawer next to the bed, even as his fingers close around the familiar plastic tube, even while he’s slicking himself up and rolling on a condom. Feuilly doesn’t blink.

He paces back over, and pushes his knee under Bahorel’s hip. “Up”

And to be fair, there’s not a whole lot of control after that, not with Bahorel slamming back as hard as Feuilly is pushing forward, and he’s not quite sure who loses it first, but then they’re both collapsed on the mattress. They’re not cuddling. Feuilly just happens to be resting his head on Bahorel’s shoulder, and Bahorel just happens to have his arm across Feuilly’s waist, and their legs just happened to end up kind of all tangled together and it’s too much fucking effort to move.

“So we go kill a guy with a fucking shadow-demon thing now, right?” Bahorel yawns.

“Mmm. Set the whole fucking place on fire. Starting with your stupid fucking hat collection”

Bahorel tugs sharply at a fistful of red hair “Fox-faced little shit”

Feuilly sinks his nails into Bahorel’s arm “Fucking Neanderthal”

But they’re both grinning around the tail-end of the insults, and Feuilly closes his eyes.

They’re gonna fucking take the world by storm.


End file.
